Through thick and thin
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes are complete opposites of one another. However, it was never always like that. Here, in no particular order, are collections of stories from both of their childhoods, and a reminder that Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, are, in fact, family.


_I know in the stories that Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock, but I can't decide! I think his age will change thought the chapters, but I think he will be no more than 10 years._

_Anyway, I wrote this in class ages and ages ago on a screwed up bit of paper, because inspiration is shameless.;-) _

_Enjoy (and review please!)_

_Sherlock x_

* * *

Authors note: In this chapter, Sherlock is 4 and Mycroft is 14.

* * *

'My.'

Mycroft dutifully ignored his brother, continuing to read as he put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. In his peripheral vision, he could see the turquois waves and he felt the wind blow his fringe back.

'My.'

Again, Mycroft ignored the whinging sounds coming from his four year old brother and continued to read, though he realised he wasn't taking in a word from the page.

'My.'

With a sigh, he began to read, slower this time, absorbing the words from the page. _How do I compare thee to a summers day?_

_Thou art more te-_

'_My!'_

Mycroft Holmes set down his book with an irate sigh and glared at his brother. Sherlock looked innocently back, his inky black hair a birds nest, his silvery eyes glinting and twinkling with mischief and his unusually pale skin slightly red with sunburn.

'Yes, Sherlock? What is it now?'

'Crabbies, Myc. Crabs!' Mycroft looked in the direction of where his brother was pointing a chubby finger. Indeed, many shiny crabs of many shades of black and reds scuttled around in the midday heat, their long legs clinging to the sand.

'Yeah, they're crabs. Well done.' Mycroft's gaze began to wander back to his book before Sherlock spoke again.

'Can I have one?'

Mycroft frowned and rolled his eyes, before he realised that his brother wasn't, in fact, joking. 'No, Sherlock, you can't have a crab. They're not pets, they belong in the wild.'

'But why?'

'Because, if people were to bring them home, they would miss their mummies and daddies. And, besides, they need the sea to live. They'll die if you take them away from it.'

'Why?'

'Because they need the moisture, I think, and all their prey live in the sea.'

'Why?'

'Because that's what they eat, and if they don't eat they starve.'

'Why?'

Mycroft didn't justify it with an answer.

* * *

'Mike?'

Mycroft ignored Sherlock's voice, coming from the bed to the side of him. He tried to drift off again, listening to the sea outside- Mycroft thanked his lucky stars that he was able to have a room the closest to the beach. Shame he had to share.

'Mymy?'

Mycroft stole a sleepy glance at the clock- he groaned as he realised it was two in the morning.

''Lock, go to sleep!' he hissed, before rolling onto his side. Sherlock watched in annoyance from his crib, before reaching out through the bars.

'But I had a nightmare.'

Mycroft didn't reply, so Sherlock reached out even further and brushed his short, sharp nails against the thin fabric of Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft shivered, before catching the small boys hand in two fingers. He shifted so that he was looking at Sherlock; he instantly felt bad when he saw Sherlock's blotchy face and spiked eyelashes.

'Hey, c'mon,' Mycroft said as he brushed away a tear with his thumb. 'It was just a nightmare, it's not real.'

'But it felt real, My. I didn't know what to do!'

Mycroft was wide awake now, and he doubted whether he would get back to sleep. Once he was awake he found it hard to get back to sleep; so, with a yawn and a stretch, he sat up.

While he didn't doubt Sherlock's advanced vocabulary to tell him what his nightmare was about, but he was worried the four year old would burst into very noisy tears and wake up mother and father. _Yes,_ Mycroft thought as the younger boys lip trembled and a few more tears trickled down his round face,_ not a good idea._

'Alright then, can you get back to sleep?' Sherlock shook his head, making his corkscrew curls bounce.

With that, Mycroft swung his legs out of bed and, in the same motion, heaved up Sherlock by his armpits. Sherlock exclaimed in surprise, before Mycroft clamped a hand down on his mouth. He was rewarded with a sharp bite to the palm.

'Ouch! Sherlock, look, you have to be _quiet._'

'Where are we going?' Sherlock whispered back, clinging to his brothers T-shirt for dear life. Mycroft ghosted down the corridor, not even bothering to answer back, before he put the four year old down and tugged a hoody over his own head. Mycroft knelt down, and tugged Sherlock's arms through a puffer jacket and zipped it up to his chin. He grabbed the house keys and a torch, before opening the door.

'C'mon, Lock. Lets go and have an adventure.'

* * *

Traveling up the beach had been an easy task, because once they were out of earshot Sherlock was incredibly noisy. It was easy to keep track of him by ear alone, so Mycroft was never worried when Sherlock disappeared out of his line of sight for a few minutes- the whoops and shouts of delight were enough to tell him Sherlock was okay.

Getting up a small hill, Mycroft and Sherlock slid down the small dip, which made the small hole in the ground no more than a meter deep.

'Mycroft, why are we here?'

'Look, I'll show you,' with that, he took the little boys hand and switched on the torch to full beam. They wandered over to a small rock pool, and Sherlock gasped as he saw hundreds of tiny little crabs scuttle away to try and avoid the light.

'How many are in there?'

'Loads, probably. Hey-' Mycroft knelt down so that he was level with Sherlock and the scooped something out of the water. When Sherlock was on tip-toes to see what it was, Mycroft opened his palm; it was a cone shaped seashell, a brilliant white.

'You can make a necklace or something, you know, if it has a hole in it-' Mycroft tapped the hole in the side of the shell.'-if you have enough shells and a string.' Sherlock immediately began to search for more stones and shells around him. Mycroft smiled and watched his small brother brow furrow in concentration. Ten minutes later, he heard a shout of delight.

'Mike! Found string!' Sherlock's head popped up, grinning. Mycroft held out his hand, and was surprised when rocks, bits of driftwood and more shells tumbled out onto his palm, along with a small bit of string.

'You want me to thread them on?' Sherlock nodded, and watched in amazement and Mycroft measured around Sherlock's wrist before snapping off the excess string, then starting to thread all the bits and pieces on. With the keys, on a bit of wood he scratched 'teulu' into the wood. Sherlock frowned, but didn't say anything.

Once Mycroft was done, he slipped it onto his brothers wrist. Sherlock shined the torches light onto it, before trying to pronounce the word carved onto the wood.

'Tee…tee-loo?'

'Teh-oo-loo.' Mycroft mended softly. 'It's Welsh for family, Sherlock. 'Cause that's what we are- you are, and always will be, my brother.'

Sherlock looked curiously from the bracelet to his brothers face, before hurrying over and giving his elder bother a bone crushing hug, nuzzling his face into Mycroft's shoulder.

'I love you, My.'

'I love you too.'


End file.
